


Three Chords and the Truth

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Bono is a Little Shit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge invites Bono around to work on some tunes, that's all. He definitely does not have anything else in mind, not when they have a duty to their audience to deliver.Set not long after the end of the ZooTV tour.





	Three Chords and the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, look at me posting while uni is happening! Though if I'm being truthful, this is simply a reworking of a fic I wrote last year but never posted at the time because I didn't think it was post-worthy, but now that I've had another go of it this evening here we are . . . I spent all of my blessedly free holidays from uni away on a trip where I could not write, and I've been itching this past week so fuck uni! *pointedly ignores all the homework I'm meant to be doing tonight instead of this* So anyway, here's this slightly cracky, and rather, ahem, porny in some places fic, I hope y'all enjoy, love love

There was a charade that Edge felt the need to let play out, a pretense of business being attended to, nothing more. It was a way of keeping Bono on his toes, of acting as though they could actually get shit done once in a while without jumping each other’s bones.

Of course, when it came to them _once in a while_ generally meant when the stars were perfectly aligned and the moon was a specific shade of blue, although even then it just wasn’t something that could be looked upon as being a guarantee.

Edge was sure that there were many people out there wondering why U2 had gone from releasing a record every year or so to every few years, and he had an excuse readily made—he just wasn’t sure if people were prepared to hear that excuse. Sure, maybe there would be a few fans out there that would be happy to hear that fucking and sucking was to blame, but the overwhelming majority likely would prefer that Bono and Edge kept their focus firmly on the music instead of what was going on in their pants, thank you very much.

It was the overwhelming majority that he had in mind when he made the call, obviously, definitely not anything else.

“I’m free all day,” he told Bono over the phone. “Are you free all day?”

“For you, Edge? I can make myself free.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“You got something brewin’ in that head of yours, hmm? An idea of how we can spend our blessedly free day?”

“I wouldn’t have called you without a plan, you know.”

“And that’s what _I_ like to hear.”

“A whole day working on some tunes, B, how’s that for a plan?”

“Tunes.” Bono sighed. “Of course. Why would I ever expect anything different?”

“Why would you indeed? We are musicians, after all.”

“One of the more glorious things about the human race,” Bono started in that _you know I’m right_ tone of his, “is how we can be a whole range of different things at once. Why pigeonhole us into being just musicians, Edge? We can be so much more, you know. Today especially.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But I’m sure we can figure it out together.”

Edge shook his head, using his sternest voice manageable to say, “Tunes, Bono, nothing more. We have a commitment to our audience, remember?”

“Sure.”

“You’ll still come?”

“I wouldn’t dream of letting you down.”

“There’s a good boy, I’ll see you soon.”

“Ooh, say it again.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Not that—”

Edge hung up the phone.

 _Soon_ could mean any number of things in Bono’s mind. Ten minutes, ten hours, six months, or a promise neglected and then outright forgotten about—not on purpose, though. Never on purpose. Sometimes, there was just too much going on upstairs. Other times, there was not nearly enough.

Today, there seemed to be only one thought on Bono’s mind when Edge opened the door, a good hour and a half after their call ended, although he didn’t voice what he was thinking. But it was obvious in the way he looked at Edge, up and down, close to a leer, yet his smile was still somehow halfway to pure. He didn’t dare mention how that phone call had ended, nor did he pout about it. It was just a smile and a hand squeeze as he walked inside, waiting for Edge to close the door before being guided further into the house he knew so well.

“What sort of tunes are we making today, Edge?”

“Do you want a drink?”

“When have I ever said no to that question?”

“What do you want?”

Bono shrugged. “You choose, you know I’m easy.”

“Truer words have never been spoken.”

Sauvignon blanc seemed only right at ten thirty on a Wednesday morning. Two large glasses, filled to the brim—the perfect way to start off a day of making tunes. Because that was all it was. Really. No matter what Bono’s eyes were saying to him. They had a duty to their audience, after all.

“What do you feel like playing today?” Bono asked only when they had settled down on the couch, a guitar in Edge’s hand, glass still in Bono’s.

“I don’t have a preference.”

Bono’s lip quirked. “You know—”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not—”

“Bono,” Edge cut in, with a firm voice, firmer stare. Surprisingly, it worked. When did that _ever_ work? Was Edge awake, or was he actually dreaming? “What did I say on the phone?”

“Tunes. Just tunes.”

“Because . . .”

“Because we have a commitment to our audience to deliver,” Bono said, apparently unable to contain his eye roll, “especially given that it’s been a whole six months since they last received a new U2 record.” Edge stared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You know, I did think that maybe if things went well today, I might consider—”

“Oh, love. It’ll go well, don’t worry. How could it not? We’ve got this down to a fucking _art_ , Edge.”

Edge blew out a hot stream of air through his teeth before shaking his head, deftly keeping his smirk at bay as he muttered, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Somehow, he managed to pretend as though he hadn’t seen the look on Bono’s face, the smug satisfaction of a man who knew he was getting his way. Though it was hard to claim complete ignorance, given how insistent Bono was in shifting to be seen whenever Edge turned his head.

The little shit.

Eventually, they did get around to making some tunes. And after so many years, they knew how to muddle together in such a way that it did feel like art. An hour of stops and starts and _have you considered . . ._ and _can I hear it again_ and _I really like what I’m hearing_ , words that Edge had always enjoyed when they came from Bono—although on such a day it was hard to know if the intent was fully there, or whether he was just saying it because he was determined to get his way. An hour of knowing grins and only compliments, of living out that charade until it just became too hard to muster up the energy to care.

Edge hit the stop button on the recorder before setting his guitar aside, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck and reaching for his drink to finish—all important things that kept him from meeting Bono’s gaze.

“Come on,” Edge said only when those things were taken care of, dragging himself off the couch and down the hallway without casting a glance behind him. In the kitchen, he topped up their glasses, waiting for Bono to take that first sip before stepping in close and brushing a kiss against his mouth.

“I thought we had a commitment to our audience?”

“Fuck our audience,” Edge murmured against his lips before briefly pressing in. “We’ve given them plenty these past few years. Two albums, a never-ending tour, what more could they possibly want from us?”

“Our souls?”

“They can have them, as long as they let me keep the rest of you.” He kissed away the smile that appeared on Bono’s face. “You’ve been very patient today.” It was a half-truth, and they both knew it, but past experiences had taught Edge that expecting the barest minimum when it came to Bono behaving usually resulted in them both coming out on top and staying there.

“Yeah?”

“So good, baby.”

“Are you proud of me then?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Satisfied with my performance thus far?”

“I don’t know, there’s always room for improvement.”

Is that so?” Bono mused, his eyes shining brightly. “Any suggestions? You know I’m always eager to impress. What do you want from me, love?”

Edge knew. He’d decided only minutes upon waking that morning, a good hour before giving in and reaching for the phone.

“On your knees.”

“Well,” Bono said, his grin turning sly, “I don’t think either of us saw that co—” He was cut off by two hands landing on his shoulders to offer their unbelievably firm guidance. “Okay, okay! Calm down, you animal.”

“Faster, B,” was Edge’s only response, and it came a full thirty seconds after Bono’s knees hit the tiles, prompted by his fingers dawdling against a belt buckle that was apparently impossible to conquer, despite all the practice he’d had with that very buckle in the past. A withering look passed between them, but the encouragement did the trick. Edge’s belt was flung to the floor only a few seconds later, his button popped and zipper dragged down at breakneck speed. “That’s better, baby.”

 “So now that I’m down here, anything specific that you want? I mean, besides the obvious,” Bono said before leaning in. His mouth was wet heat through cotton underwear, his gaze a mixture of so many things.

“It’s your choice.”

It clearly wasn’t the answer that Bono had been expecting, nor was it something he readily knew what to do with. Not at first, anyway.

But then inspiration seemed to hit. His smile turned but his gaze remained, unwavering from Edge’s face as he pulled himself upright a little more, suddenly so eager to push forward that he barely gave himself enough time to inch Edge’s underwear down before doing just that. And then that wet heat found the head of Edge’s cock, his palm sliding back and forth against what was still trapped beneath all that cotton.

He sucked gently at first before becoming bolder, his tongue working, teeth scraping as much as he dared, one finger disappearing into Edge’s underwear, but it was only to lightly snap the band, not to drag the material down any further.

No, Bono seemed completely content to work with what he had, the fingers of his left hand digging into Edge’s thigh, while the ones on his right continued to discover the rest of Edge’s cock that remained hidden—trapped was a far better word, really, for how close to torture it was quickly becoming—hidden and _trapped_ beneath the white cotton of his designer underwear.

The things that Bono could do with that mouth of his, with those lips. The way he could play Edge’s cock and balls with fingers that often struggled with six strings, three chords and the truth, shifting that cotton back and forth, up and down, bunching and dragging as he mouthed and sucked, fingers dancing, blue eyes watching Edge’s face for change.

And when Bono moaned around him it was a sound and vibration that tumbled through Edge and caught him right where he wasn’t expecting—all over instead of situated deep inside, where he might have almost been able to handle such a feeling.

Hadn’t he been in control only a few minutes beforehand? Where had that gone? Did he care? Did he _care_?

Dark hair slipped through his fingers, wet heat glided against his cock, the silky inside of Bono’s mouth and tongue that he knew on an intimate basis yet always wanted to somehow know better still, he wanted to live in that mouth and stay there, and they might have stolen Bono’s soul but they would never steal the rest of him from Edge. If they dared to even try they would have a fucking fight on their hands, a fight that they would lose. And there was that moan again, and there was that tumbling feeling catching him off guard, prickling at his skin and rolling around, rolling until it turned into something that felt a lot like dread, not yet, not _yet_.

He managed somehow. Fingers in Bono’s hair, drawing his head back. Fingers against his own cock, pulling it free just far enough, one stroke and then two and then five, his breath catching in his throat, Bono’s lips parting for him, waiting, wanting and having, one stroke and then another, that tumbling feeling rolling straight on into burning relief as he came. One stroke and then another, as Bono took everything that Edge had, his gaze staying until it couldn’t anymore, until his eyelashes started to flutter, the ghost of a smile gracing his face as his lips met in the middle and stayed, pressing a kiss against the head of Edge's cock as his throat worked, working until that familiar moan broke right on through to the other side.

His hair had never felt so good against Edge’s fingers before, his lips never so soft.

Of course, there might have been a chance that Edge was just focused on the now and unable to look to the past. Maybe Bono’s hair had always felt like that. Maybe his lips were just as soft as they always had been. Who would know at such a time? Who could give a fuck, when all that they knew was that very moment?

“Do you think that was enough to completely satisfy me?” he asked Bono when he finally found his voice.

Bono grinned up at him. “I don’t know about completely, but it should be enough to keep you going for a few more hours.”

A simple _yes_ would have sufficed, but past experiences had taught Edge never to expect brevity when it came to Bono. “Hmm, and what happens then?”

“Naturally, I can’t know for sure, Edge, _buuut_ . . .” Bono shrugged like he was almost indifferent to the whole situation, yet there was that gleam in his eye that always told the most interesting story, one that Edge loved trying to unfold. “I imagine that you’ll be wanting to have another go at it, to see if I’ve improved my performance after a bout of personal reflection.”

Edge simply nodded, running his fingers through soft hair as he plotted his next move. And when nothing inspiring came to mind, he just kept stroking until Bono leaned in to rest his temple against Edge’s thigh.

“Good, that’s good, Bono,” he murmured. “I love when we’re on the same page.”


End file.
